satisfaction. His mind is scarcely engaged at all. He is like a child,
hearing and feeling without understanding. It is the sensuous
gratification he asks for. Which is why D'Annunzio is a god in Italy. He
can control the current of the blood with his words, and although much
of what he says is bosh, yet his hearer is satisfied, fulfilled.
Carnival ends on the 5th of February, so each Thursday there is a Serata
d' Onore of one of the actors. The first, and the only one for which
prices were raised--to a fourpence entrance fee instead of
threepence--was for the leading lady. The play was _The Wife of the
Doctor_, a modern piece, sufficiently uninteresting; the farce that
followed made me laugh.
Since it was her Evening of Honour, Adelaida was the person to see. She
is very popular, though she is no longer young. In fact, she is the
mother of the young pert person of _Ghosts_.
Nevertheless, Adelaida, stout and blonde and soft and pathetic, is the
real heroine of the theatre, the prima. She is very good at sobbing; and
afterwards the men exclaim involuntarily, out of their strong emotion,
'_bella, bella_!' The women say nothing. They sit stiffly and
dangerously as ever. But, no doubt, they quite agree this is the true
picture of ill-used, tear-stained woman, the bearer of many wrongs.
Therefore they take unto themselves the homage of the men's '_bella,
bella_!' that follows the sobs: it is due recognition of their hard
wrongs: 'the woman pays.' Nevertheless, they despise in their souls the
plump, soft Adelaida.
Dear Adelaida, she is irreproachable. In every age, in every clime, she
is dear, at any rate to the masculine soul, this soft, tear-blenched,
blonde, ill-used thing. She must be ill-used and unfortunate. Dear
Gretchen, dear Desdemona, dear Iphigenia, dear Dame aux Camélias, dear
Lucy of Lammermoor, dear Mary Magdalene, dear, pathetic, unfortunate
soul, in all ages and lands, how we love you. In the theatre she
blossoms forth, she is the lily of the stage. Young and inexperienced as
I am, I have broken my heart over her several times. I could write a
sonnet-sequence to her, yes, the fair, pale, tear-stained thing,
white-robed, with her hair down her back; I could call her by a hundred
names, in a hundred languages, Melisande, Elizabeth, Juliet, Butterfly,
Phèdre, Minnehaha, etc. Each new time I hear her voice, with its faint
clang of tears, my heart grows big and hot, and my bones melt. I detest
her, but it is no good. My heart begins to swell like a bud under the
plangent rain.
The last time I saw her was here, on the Garda, at Salò. She was the
chalked, thin-armed daughter of Rigoletto. I detested her, her voice had
a chalky squeak in it. And yet, by the end, my heart was overripe in my
breast, ready to burst with loving affection. I was ready to walk on to
the stage, to wipe out the odious, miscreant lover, and to offer her all
myself, saying, 'I can see it is real _love_ you want, and you shall
have it: _I_ will give it to you.'
Of course I know the secret of the Gretchen magic; it is all in the
'Save me, Mr Hercules!' phrase. Her shyness, her timidity, her
trustfulness, her tears foster my own strength and grandeur. I am the
positive half of the universe. But so I am, if it comes to that, just as
positive as the other half.
Adelaida is plump, and her voice has just that moist, plangent strength
which gives one a real voluptuous thrill. The moment she comes on the
stage and looks round--a bit scared--she is _she_, Electra, Isolde,
Sieglinde, Marguèrite. She wears a dress of black voile, like the lady
who weeps at the trial in the police-court. This is her modern uniform.
Her antique garment is of trailing white, with a blonde pigtail and a
flower. Realistically, it is black voile and a handkerchief.
Adelaida always has a handkerchief. And still I cannot resist it. I say,
'There's the hanky!' Nevertheless, in two minutes it has worked its way
with me. She squeezes it in her poor, plump hand as the tears begin to
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